A Friend
by Ginger Glinda the Tangerine
Summary: An exchange in a bar. Inspired by an exchange on a certain television show...


_A/N: I don't own the exchange at the end of this story. It belongs solely to Joss Whedon and associated writers, and was merely the inspiration for the fic itself._

_Disclaimer: Don't own it. Wouldn't be writing fanfic for it if I did._

_..._

He was young, and revolutionary. Not an astounding combination, perhaps, but every young rebel is always convinced that they are the first, the most important. This one certainly did. It was his ambition to take down the corrupt government of Oz, all on his own, one public figure at a time. He would do everything: sneak through shadows at night, earn himself a witty yet fitting pseudonym, win the admiration of hundreds of adoring, faceless girls with eccentric clothes and a penchant for faux-danger. And he would be written about in the history books, would be revered as the man who changed Oz for the better.

At that precise moment, however, the young revolutionary was sitting in a dark bar, a cloak pulled up over his face, looking into the dark, flavourful depths of his drink. It was some local variation on wine, better tasting and more suited to the dank, shadowy surroundings. He took a drink and stared out at the bar's patrons. So few of them would remember their companions' names tomorrow; their trivial conversations would be lost in the fog of hangover. So few of the people surrounding the young man knew his name, or even noticed that he sat there, night after night, and watched them all. But that was the way he liked it. He greatly preferred anonymity. It made his few actions (he was working up to the elimination of every public figure, of course. Such a drastic course took time and dedication) much less traceable, and, of course, allowed the inevitable nameless trysts with young, naïve women seduced by his mystery.

The young man almost flinched when another cloaked figure took a seat next to him and murmured an order to the barman. The figure was handed a glass of the same dark liquid the young revolutionary himself was drinking, and sipped it cautiously. The figure's gloved fingers were long and thin, its shoulders delicate, and what little of its face that was visible was angular and strangely alluring. The figure was female, the young man decided. Female and with the same wish for anonymity he himself harboured.

The figure spoke into her glass, but her words were clearly meant for the man next to her. "You want change, don't you?"

The revolutionary spoke to his glass in the same manner. He'd had conversations such as this before, when neither of the participants looked at each other or at anything but what was directly in front of them; nothing had ever come of them. Still, there was no harm in probing this woman's knowledge of the resistance. "Yes. Many do."

She gave a sound akin to a laugh, but there was no humour in it, and no life. "Fewer than you'd think."

The young revolutionary hazarded a glance in the woman's direction. She took a drink and wiped her mouth with the corner of her sleeve. Through the smoky haze of the bar, he thought he saw a tongue flick out of her mouth, lizardlike, and catch a drip from the edge of the glass. He took a breath, but did not reply.

"I know your type," the woman told him, her voice full of something almost like regret. "You want the world, and you want all the glory that comes with killing the Wizard. You want admiration, you want sex, and you want power. The good of Oz is secondary to those desires."

The youth downed the remainder of his drink. "I want to see an end to the Wizard," he insisted, staring at the dark, scuffed wood of the bar. "I want the Banns on Animal rights lifted, and I want the repression of the Quadlings ended."

"You have done your homework," the woman said, impressed. The young revolutionary allowed a small balloon of pride to inflate in his chest for a moment. "There are many who would appreciate your youth and your passion."

"Many," the young man repeated, his voice flat, careful not to betray any interest. "What does that mean?"

The woman moved closer, speaking almost in his ear, and her voice was low and urgent. "There is a group, a… collective. They are always scouting for fresh blood, and they are effecting real change. You can join them, but you will not be important and you will not have power. You will merely be a cog, a part of a larger plan. You will not be the spearhead; you will not even be the shaft. But you will be part of the revolution that will change Oz forever."

The woman deftly slipped off one glove, and wrote an address on the youth's napkin. "Come here tomorrow night," she instructed. "But if you breathe a word of this conversation, or this location, to anyone, be sure of this. We will find you, and we will kill you. And it will not be pleasant."

The young revolutionary slipped the napkin into a pocket in his cloak, and the woman gave a small grunt of approval. As she slipped her glove back on, he noted that what he had thought to be a trick of the light was no such thing: her skin really was green. She drained her glass and got up to leave, but he stood up and followed her to the door of the bar. "Who are you?"

She turned in the doorway, her cloaked frame silhouetted in the doorway. "I prefer that no-one knows that."

The youth shrugged. "As do I. But-"

She laughed again, the strange, lifeless noise that sent a chill up the youth's spine. "Let's just say… I'm a friend."

She turned to leave again, and he followed her, doggedly, stopping short of grabbing her arm as she stalked out into the dark Emerald City night. He felt patronised, something he had not felt for some years, and he wanted to make sure she knew. "I don't need a friend."

The woman stopped walking, her back to him, her head cocked. Her hood had slipped back, and the wind gently removed it from her head, revealing a coil of oily black hair and a thin, feminine neck. She turned to him, slowly, and he took in her strange beauty. She smiled at him, a facial contortion that seemed almost alien to her. The smile had no warmth; it was a gesture of humanity more than one of companionship.

"I didn't say I was yours."


End file.
